


The Fallen Hero of Villeneuve

by Meowzy



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowzy/pseuds/Meowzy
Summary: On the brink of death, no one reflects on his life like Gaston.
Relationships: Gaston & LeFou (Disney)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Fallen Hero of Villeneuve

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for character death, mentions of gore and injury, and just Gaston's attitude in general. As the fic was written from this jerk's point of view, expect a lot of casual misogyny, racism, classism, homosexual erasure... Just the whole shebang that comes from being raised in a rural village in the 1700s where toxic masculinity rules, really.
> 
> (Please keep in mind that this fanfiction was written in November 2020. I'm absolutely aware that a lot of the scenes in this fanfic will be jossed- or uh, Joshed when Disney releases its prequel series about Gaston and LeFou, but at this point we don't even really know the title of this series for sure. So until then, here's my take on Gaston's life before the curse hit!)

**The Fallen Hero of Villeneuve**

It'd been said that when one was close to death, they'd see their life flashing before their eyes. That was nonsense. As Gaston felt the solid concrete of the bridge disappear beneath his feet, sending him into a free fall, the only thing he _saw_ was darkness. The only thing he heard was his own scream and should he have had enough time left to draw a breath, he might've smelled the remnants of gunpowder from his pistol. He sure tasted something bitter.  
  
All in all, the fall couldn't have lasted longer than three seconds; certainly not enough time for his frenzied mind to piece together coherent, proper memories. The only thought to successfully make its way past the fright was that this was no way for a hero to die. Anyone else, sure, but not _him_. He'd always considered himself to be better than this- or at least, he _believed_ he had always considered that.  
  
\----  
  
For sixteen years, Villeneuve had always seemed like a rather small village to Gaston. Quiet, remote, _boring_... Born the son of a hunter and raised to follow in his father's footsteps, he was sure he would be stuck in the same routine until the day he died. He'd wondered, from time to time, whether he could head out into the great wide somewhere. _Anywhere_. Surely, other towns would be more adventurous than whatever this place had in store for him.  
  
Today, he was proven wrong. Screams filled the air. People were running through the streets. Several stores had their windows broken and now the glass shards were a hazard to anyone with cheaper shoes. As Gaston pushed his way through a small group of panicked women moving in the other direction and rounded a corner, he felt the heat of nearby flames tickle his face. The bakery was on fire.  
  
Now that Villeneuve was under attack by marauders, their numbers unknown and their hiding places plentiful, the village suddenly felt quite large after all. Gaston hadn't realized so many people lived here until they were all dashing through the streets in chaotic, helpless panic. He also hadn't realized there were so many streets to dash through in the first place.  
  
He had no idea where these bandits had come from. He only knew that they didn't speak French, and so, they must've been dirty foreigners.  
  
Villeneuve didn't have too many riches- not thanks to the royal family, anyway. Anything to be robbed from here wouldn't be money or jewelry, it'd be very mundane _things_. Clothes, food, horses... They might even take some of the village's _women_ , he realized with a start. Further down the street, he saw one of the bandits loading the butcher's meat onto the back of a cart. Villeneuve wasn't being invaded because it had much to steal, but because it'd been seen as an easy target. _Weak_. There were no soldiers living in these houses, only farmers, craftsmen, women and children.  
  
… And _hunters_.  
  
A realization sank in that if anyone had the skills to fight, it'd be him. He didn't eat that many eggs a day for nothing. His bow and quiver were still slung over his shoulder, as he'd only just returned from a hunting trip when he overheard the mayhem. He'd never shot a person before. But then... maybe thinking of these miserable thieves as people was wrong. This was no way for human beings to behave. These were wild animals.  
  
So he drew an arrow from his quiver, took aim and fired. His target was struck square in the back. One howl of pain later, the foreign bastard slumped forward and landed on his stolen goods. Were it not for the clothes, he'd be the same as any other piece of meat on that cart. Gaston drew a shaky breath of relief, but didn't dare gloat.  
  
Someone had edged up by his side. It was the man who owned the pottery shop. While holding up a pitchfork, it was clear Monsieur Potts had never used such a thing as a weapon before. From the pale complexion to the uneasy trembling of the hands, he wasn't convincing anyone that he could stand his ground. If he were to try and fight the bandits, he wouldn't live to tell the tale.  
  
“Go!” Gaston shouted. When Monsieur Potts still refused to budge- or maybe he was just paralyzed with fear- Gaston waved a hand at him. “I said _go_! Return to your home and bar the door! I'll take care of this!”  
  
“Bu-But... There's too many of them...!”  
  
“Then I'll just have to pick them off one by one, won't I?”  
  
Monsieur Potts didn't have any kind of response to that. He simply turned and scurried off, pitchfork in hand. Likely, he was thinking of his wife. Gaston was glad to see him go.  
  
Casting one last glance at the fallen foreigner, a chill ran down his spine. Some sort of dread was attempting to settle, but he wouldn't let it. ' _It's just like hunting_ ,' he told himself. ' _It's the exact same thing_.'  
  
Taking refuge beside a chicken coop near the village square, where he wouldn't be spotted so easily while keeping a steady eye on the street, he succeeded in taking out four more of the invaders without raising alarm. With that, he'd run out of arrows and was forced back out into the open to find a replacement. Distant screaming told him there were still a few thieves running wild. He could run back home to get more arrows, but it was all the way on the other side of town.  
  
His eye was caught by a sword dropped by one of those foreign bastards. Hesitation, then he picked it up and weighed it in his hand. While bow and arrow were intimately familiar to him, swords were more like vague acquaintances. His father had begun to teach him how to wield one, as it was his duty to bear arms, but the old man had died before any skill could be fine-tuned. Still, it couldn't be too hard, could it? Just jab and strike a vital organ; that was all he needed to do.  
  
He began to stalk his way through the street, sticking close to the walls of houses to avoid being seen right off the bat. A nearby scream of alarm rang out, its tone so high-pitched that Gaston's mind assumed a woman was in trouble. Deep, roaring laughter came next- that was absolutely _not_ a woman. No time to waste. He rounded another corner, looking for the source for the disturbance. One of the raggedy strangers was nearby, cackling loudly and crouching before a dog house. The bastard must've cornered some helpless damsel inside it. As the guy wasn't even carrying any weapons, whoever he was threatening must've been very weak indeed.  
  
_Hero time_.  
  
With his back turned and all his attention on his prey, the invader was oblivious to Gaston, who snuck up behind him. The exact moment he was in range, Gaston found himself caught in doubt. Impaling someone with a sword was very, _very_ different from loosing an arrow at a safe, impersonal distance. Still, at that second the invader must've finally taken note of Gaston's approach, as his laughing died down and his head began to turn. Instinct kicked in. Gaston raised the sword and plunged it through the man's midriff with all his might.  
  
Lungs. He'd definitely just rammed a blade through the lungs. Death would be fast but not instantaneous.  
  
He wasn't sure what made him say it, or even why he said anything at all. He only knew that a spiteful taunt left his mouth. “ _Bonjour_ , dirtbag. Welcome to France.”  
  
While Gaston was definitely grinning, he felt that expression falter when he heard a few death rattles from the man he'd just impaled. Seconds stretched on into what felt like eternity, then finally, the bandit's limbs and head drooped forward. Gaston attempted to pull the sword back, only to find that no matter what he tried, the dead body moved along with it. The blade had gotten quite stuck. For about a second, Gaston was horrified. Then his mood switched to frustrated as he realized he was forced to abandon the sword. He released the handle and the bandit fell to the ground, one of his hands mere centimetres from the dog house.  
  
Right. _Right_. Gaston hadn't just killed someone for the fun of it; he'd done it to save a life. It couldn't have been avoided. He hastily wiped some sweat from his brow and drew in a few deep breaths to ease the tension in his chest. “You can come out now,” he said loudly.  
  
A squeak sounded from inside the dog house.  
  
“Go on. You don't want to stay in there forever, do you? It's safe out here for now.”  
  
The first thing Gaston saw was a hand placing itself just outside the dog house as the damsel crawled out into the open. In that split second, he found himself listing off every single maiden he possibly could've saved, as there were only so many of them in town, and wondered how each of them would react. He caught a glimpse of black hair and already, that narrowed down the possibilities. Following that, bitter disappointment seemed to hit him across the face. What ended up sitting on all fours before him was not a maiden, nor even a dog.  
  
It was some scraggly, scrawny boy, only a year or two younger than Gaston himself.  
  
Who was this guy again? The son of the local accountant, maybe? Having never concerned himself with the _men_ in town, no name dawned on him. Then again, he couldn't remember any _specific_ instances of having spotted this guy to begin with. He knew it was another one of the villagers without a doubt, but definitely one of those people who never drew attention to himself.  
  
“... Ah,” was all he could think to say.  
  
The meek little guy's gaze shot from Gaston towards the dead bandit and startled by something so very harmless, he scurried himself backwards. In doing so, he collided with the dog house and sent it scraping a few centimetres along the dirt. What a pathetic sight. Monsieur Potts, at least, had made an _attempt_ to be brave. This boy was in the prime of his life and quivering like a timid little bunny. No wonder the invaders believed Villeneuve to be an easy target. No wonder that bandit had spent his last few moments _laughing_.  
  
“Come on, up you get,” Gaston said, holding out a hand to see if he could pull the boy back to his feet. “Young men stand tall and proud in the face of danger.”  
  
“O-Oh no... No... I...”  
  
“ _Up_.”  
  
A brief moment of hesitation, then Gaston's hand was taken and the boy ended up standing on wobbly, feeble legs. If there was anything deserving of second-hand embarrassment, it was this pathetic sight.  
  
“You... You _saved_ me...” the coward stated breathlessly, his eyes locked with Gaston's. Even his _voice_ came across as weak and dainty.  
  
“Yeah. Well... Yes. Obviously.”  
  
“Tha... _Thank_ you.”  
  
Well. This was awkward. Realizing he was still holding onto a sweaty palm, Gaston quickly relaxed his fingers and pulled his hand back. He could've just told this guy to go hide with the women, but then, all hope wasn't lost yet. He definitely preferred to work alone; he was _used_ to that sort of thing, but with no more weapons at his disposal, he needed an ally.  
  
“What's your name?” he asked.  
  
“Le... LeFou.”  
  
“Alright. LeFou, I need your help to save the village.”  
  
Going by the guy's alarmed expression, it was clear no one had ever asked _anything_ of him, let alone something so important. If that wasn't already enough, the following stutter of words cemented it. “ _Me_? Oooh no, Gaston. No, I don't think...”  
  
It came as a surprise that LeFou knew his name. As far as Gaston knew, they'd never spoken before tonight. But then... There were very few hunters in the village, and even fewer who brought in a supply of kills as often as Gaston did. One of the butchers might've mentioned his name in passing.  
  
Either way, he grabbed LeFou's shoulder and shook it roughly. “Are you a man, or _aren't_ you?!”  
  
“I...”  
  
A loud 'boom' split the air and caused the ground to shudder. An explosion? Several more people were screaming and LeFou had made a lurching movement in an attempt to stumble backwards. As Gaston was still holding onto his shoulder, he hadn't exactly gotten very far. Instead, he took a few steps closer as if seeking out protection. As for Gaston himself, he'd barely flinched. He released LeFou's shoulder, staring the guy down.  
  
“This place is full of people who need our help,” he said sternly. “Don't you hear them calling out? It's time to stop hiding! This is your chance to prove yourself. No, your _duty_ to prove yourself! What do you say?”  
  
“Oh... If... If you think I can help...” LeFou muttered, glancing off towards the side. “So what's the plan?”  
  
_Plan_? A strained grin tugged at Gaston's lips and a chuckle rumbled in the back of his throat. When had plans ever done anything for anyone? One could strategize all they wanted about which path a deer would take and how it might react, but in the art of hunting it all came down to two things: Patience and brute force.  
  
“The _plan_ , LeFou, is to find more weapons.” Gaston cast a glance down towards the fallen bandit, where the sword was still very much stuck and the setting sun was reflected in its blade. “... Arrows, preferably.”  
  
LeFou shifted uncomfortably and peered down the street. “I-I-I... I don't know about any arrows, but... My father owns a pistol. It's in his office. Over there.”  
  
“ _Now_ we're talking,” Gaston jeered. His decision to trust a simpleton was paying off after all. His spirits lifting, he slapped a hand against the back of LeFou's shoulder and it earned him a meek smile in return.  
  
Minutes stretched into hours as Gaston continued his eradication of the foreigners, now aided by an unlikely accomplice. The pistol's shot was loud, but for the longest time, the noise was drowned out by the chaos surrounding them. By the time the total count of dead foreigners had reached fifteen, however, that chaos had begun to die down. The marauders had taken note, by now, that their fellows were being hunted. They were on edge. They attempted to hide, but Gaston was an expert tracker and managed to locate their flimsy little strongholds. They didn't know the village, after all, while Gaston was familiar with every single nook and cranny.  
  
Sixteen dead, seventeen dead, eighteen... Why wouldn't the survivors just _retreat_ already? There was no way they could win now. Nineteen, twenty... How many of these bastards were left?  
  
Gaston began to resent the villagers just a bit for hiding away in their homes and leaving him to clean up the last remains of this mess. If they were to all take to the streets as a team now, they could rid the village of the stragglers in no time at all. Though, he _had_ made it clear to everyone he'd come across that they ought to avoid confrontation, hadn't he? Damn. Now the only ones still out in the streets were himself and-  
  
“Gaston, watch out!”  
  
LeFou's horrified yell pulled him out of his disgruntled thoughts. He'd let his guard down. Whirling around, he came face to face with a sword. It was mere centimetres from his face. The metal seemed to _glow_ in the light of a nearby lantern. This was it. The hunter had become the hunted.  
  
But the sword never touched him. There was a loud thump and a cry of pain. Gaston blinked furiously, then saw the assailant sprawled out on the ground before him. Crimson began to stain the dirt, flowing from the man's head. A bit further along stood LeFou, brandishing a shovel as a weapon. While he was breathing heavily and looked like he was about to faint, he'd stood his ground all the same.  
  
Pride swelled up inside Gaston at the sight of it. Pride that lasted only for a moment, because following that, something even _stronger_ washed over him. It was nausea. His ears began to ring. The pistol shook violently in his hand. He lost track of where he was. The smell of blood came to him out of seemingly nowhere, which was odd, as he was sure that scent had lingered in the air ever since he'd run a bandit through with a sword. Why was he only becoming aware of it now?  
  
“-Gaston! Are you alright?”  
  
LeFou's voice cut through the numb haze and the next second, his shoulder was being shaken. He flinched and pulled himself out of the guy's hold immediately. This was no time to lose his composure. He had to keep a close watch on his surroundings.  
  
“I'm _fine_ \- I'm fine,” he barked at LeFou.  
  
Hurt seemed to show on his ally's face, just for a split second. Then LeFou guffawed hoarsely and took a step back. “Hah... I guess this makes us even, huh?”  
  
Gaston didn't think his pride could be dented quite this badly, but here it was. That was not at all how he'd expected this partnership to play out. Sure, he'd succeeded in giving LeFou more of a spine and that should've been the main focus here, but something nagged at him in the back of his head. He'd been saved by the town weakling.  
  
So he scoffed and muttered an excuse about getting distracted. He focused his attention on the foreigner, who surely lay dead at his feet, because there was no mistaking the distant look on his face. Gaston had seen that same look before on many different animals. Silence pressed down on him and he wondered whether this was the last of those bastards.  
  
He didn't know how long he stood there. He only knew that he became surrounded by villagers, all of them in awe and overcome with gratitude. He was taken to the tavern, along with LeFou, where he was sat down in a big, comfy chair. His hair was ruffled and his shoulder was clapped so many times that he lost count. Pitcher after pitcher of beer was pressed into his hand, free of charge. All around, stories were being swapped about what'd happened and how everyone owed their lives to Gaston. No one shared these stories as loudly and enthusiastically as LeFou, who had seen most of the kills happen first-hand. It was like the entire town was singing his praises.  
  
All throughout the evening, the smell of blood lingered in the back of his nose.  
  
\----  
  
Bright red appeared in the haze of Gaston's blurred vision. Numerous flecks of it, all situated in the distance. Everything surrounding it was either black, gray or shrouded in darkness- he couldn't tell. All he knew was that the red seemed to float on a black background.  
  
Droplets of blood? Were they in his eyes?  
  
He couldn't hear. A disgusting taste was in the back of his mouth- something metallic. Where at first there was nothing, pain exploded into being. The side of his head, his spine, his shoulders, his arms... They all hurt to a degree that was excruciating. In a very strange contrast, he couldn't feel his legs at all. He was cold, a numbing night air torturing every bit of bare skin it could reach. He was lying on his back, but in a very unnatural way, because he was lying on top of something uneven. Something hard and jagged. His head had rolled sideways, his right cheek pressing up against what must've been stone.  
  
Where was he? How long had he been unconscious?  
  
Blinking managed to bring details to his sight, if only a little. The group of distant red blots he was seeing wasn't blood at all. He could see flowers. Petals.  
  
_Roses_.  
  
It was with great difficulty that he managed to turn his head. He peered up towards a dark night sky. Not only that; he saw turrets and statues all around. A castle...?  
  
_The beast_!  
  
Memories of the evening's assault came flooding back to him and along with that came alarm. How was he still alive after such a great fall? How many bones had he broken? Were the villagers still around? He tried to get up, but could barely twitch his fingers, let alone raise a limb. He tried to call for help, but managed no more than a whimper. He'd suffered plenty of injuries during the war, but the situation had never been this bad before.  
  
\----  
  
For the past few years, Gaston's life had been nothing but suffering. _Other_ people's suffering, anyway. Muskets, cutlasses, cannons... Anything and everything that could be used to inflict harm on the enemy was being employed. Long gone were the days of loosing an arrow and considering that a job well done. Long gone were the days of silent kills. War wasn't pretty. It was a far cry from taking out a few miserable, straggling bandits, too.  
  
He'd been promoted to Captain, though, so he must've been doing _something_ right.  
  
In a way, the whole thing was laughably easy. War painted everything in black and white. There were only their own people and the _enemy_. Gaston didn't need to know just who he was killing, only that he _had_ to do it for the sake of his country. So he would hack his way through some hordes of enemy soldiers, he would have others gunned down... They would fall and the company under his command would cheer him on. Every so often, grateful women who had been left alone by the ravages of war would throw themselves at their feet. Gaston was never one to say no to that. If these women, be they widows or wives-to-be, were so desperate for the attention of a fetching man, he was happy to provide. Then there was the gambling, the drinking, the friendly brawls with fellow soldiers... It was almost as taxing as the fighting, but always worth it. It _distracted_.  
  
Even in the brief moments of respite, he had no time to truly get comfortable. He didn't even need to _think_ about what he'd been through during the day, because LeFou would be right there, reiterating the stories for him and his men. The odd thing was that the tales LeFou shared didn't _quite_ seem to match up with how Gaston remembered things playing out. He couldn't be bothered to correct his friend, though. Every single time it happened, he was too tired and would instead look forward to the few hours of sleep they'd be allowed.  
  
Gaston hadn't expected LeFou to enlist in the army with him. He hadn't even _asked_. He'd simply left Villeneuve to serve his country and only a week later, LeFou had showed up at camp, delighted at their reunion. They had trained together and while LeFou was far less gifted when it came to wielding weapons, he'd never once backed down from the challenge. Maybe the army would make a man out of him after all.  
  
Over the years, Gaston had grown kind of fond of the little guy. Whenever he needed help with something, LeFou would be there. Even when he _didn't_ need help, LeFou would be there anyway. This was what it meant to have a friend, he supposed.  
  
The trouble was, maybe LeFou was taking that friendship thing a bit too far. With every exaggerated story that was told, the expectations of Gaston's skills rose. Sure, he'd been the hero of Villeneuve, but now he was expected to be the hero of the entire French army. Egged on by LeFou, his men acted as if Gaston would lead them to victory in the war. Who knew? Maybe he _would_. So he ignored how heavy his body had begun to feel over the past year. He ignored the headaches, he ignored the nightmares and he ignored the tightness in his chest.  
  
He had to _win_.  
  
With battle becoming a routine, it was only natural that he would inevitably black out and allow his reflexes to take over. The motions were familiar and therefore, they were comfortable. It wasn't until he heard LeFou calling his name three times over that he started out of that reverie and allowed his eyes to _see_.  
  
Before him lay the body of an enemy soldier, unmistakably dead. Gaston knew this for a fact because his cutlass had been jammed into the man's chest many times over. Blood and gore and all sorts of things spilled over the ground. Going by the mess he'd made, he must've stabbed this fellow at least twenty times. That was strange, he thought, because was standing perfectly upright at the moment. This soldier had been no threat to him at all.  
  
Was this why LeFou had sounded so terrified?  
  
Why were his lungs struggling to hold air inside them? Why were his ears ringing? Had he been hit by something? No, surely not. But he felt quite dizzy all of a sudden, staggering in his attempts to stay upright. His cutlass slipped from his fingers. He didn't fall along with it, though. A pair of hands grabbed him by the upper arms, holding him upright.  
  
“Gaston! Hey, are you alright? Snap out of it!”  
  
The words struggled to sink in. Even when they did, he couldn't think of anything to say. What was there to snap out of? What even was the point?  
  
Before he knew what was happening, he'd been taken away from the battlefield by LeFou and some other trusted soldiers. He was laid down on a blanket in the medical tent where he spent anywhere between ten minutes to two _hours_ curled in on himself, drawing in ragged breaths as sweat pooled down his face and back. He'd also vomited once. None of that was as embarrassing as the moment where he'd burst into tears, though. Absolutely dreadful. Weeping was for little children and grieving women.  
  
The camp doctor came to see him and suggested he might've been coming down with something. Maybe he _was_. That was the best explanation for all of it. He didn't need to concern himself with how this came across to the men, though. As he learned later, LeFou had already gone out to spread wild stories about how he'd been poisoned by the enemy and was coming out victorious. No one conquered death like Gaston.  
  
If LeFou had seen him cry, he never once brought it up.  
  
\----  
  
It was unfair, really. After all those years of being adored, all those years of protecting others and helping them live their simple little lives... Gaston was going to die all alone. No wife, no children, not even LeFou was here to tell him everything would be alright.  
  
Sure, Gaston had left him behind beneath a living harpsichord, but not even LeFou would get seriously harmed from something like that. Surely, one of the other villagers would've helped him out of that situation, so _where was he_? Did he even know Gaston had fallen? Or had the beast and its disturbing helpers won the day after all? Had the villagers been led to slaughter by their hero?  
  
The sun was rising. With it came an odd sense of warmth and light. The castle basked in its glow and as it did, it seemed to transform. What _was_ gray, cold and twisted was washed away, much like stains of mud in the rain. Now, instead, Gaston was peering up at something much more beautiful. The snow surrounding him melted and the roses, in turn, looked even more striking and vivid.  
  
He couldn't make sense of it. Had the dark magic covering this place been lifted? Was it because he'd succeeded in slaying the beast? Was he the town hero after all? Had he freed Belle from the curse too? And didn't he know this castle? Hadn't he _been_ here before?  
  
Despite his headache, memories surfaced. Memories of moments that surely must've taken place over ten years ago, as his life had gone on for quite some time since that day, but it felt as if it'd played out only yesterday.  
  
\----  
  
The deer had succeeded in locating a patch of dried grass beneath the snow and had begun to graze. All of its attention was on that one understandable, wonderful action. Winter had become so harsh that most animals were starving, after all. This one patch of grass could make all the difference to a beast as dumb as a deer.  
  
He took aim, his hold on the arrow as firm as it'd ever been. Steady... _Steady_...  
  
“ _Gaston_!”  
  
The call was sudden and invasive, snapping him out of his concentration. He started and his fingers accidentally released the arrow. It missed the deer and burrowed its way into the bark of a tree. As for the animal itself, it had fled at the sound of a nasal, excited, _human_ voice.  
  
Gaston grumbled under his breath and lowered his bow. His lips pressed into a thin line as he worked his way through his frustration, then he rose to his feet and forced a smile. Even after all this time, he was nothing if not polite.  
  
“ _LeFou_ ,” he said, a stiffness in his voice that was often there but seemed to sail right over his friend's head every single time. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”  
  
When LeFou closed the distance, it was with some very loud crunching and boots that sank deeply into the snow. Gaston had attempted to teach him many times, but he _still_ hadn't learned a thing about masking sounds. “Have you heard? The prince is hosting another ball tonight!” LeFou cried out with such misplaced excitement that Gaston felt some bile in the back of his throat.  
  
“Paid for with _our_ tax money, no doubt,” he all but spat in return. The prince's attitude made him sick. Their late king had already been bad enough, but his offspring was a different greedy beast entirely. Everyone in Villeneuve had been paying through the nose for the prince's luxurious, unnecessary, upper class parties.  
  
“Well yes, but-”  
  
“Let me guess, he's still searching for a wife.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“And as always, no one will be good enough for him, making this ball a waste of time and money.”  
  
“Errr... _Probably_.”  
  
“So _why_ would I care about any of that?”  
  
Gaston whirled around and began to walk away, further into the woods. He needed to track down the escaped deer or, failing that, _any_ animal worth slaying. Not deterred by the cold shoulder or the thick blanket of snow, LeFou broke into a clumsy run to keep up.  
  
“Because Tom thinks he can get us in, this time! He's friends with Lumiere- that's the castle's maître d'! We'll disguise ourselves as staff and keep to the shadows. Then, when the lovely ladies all get rejected, we'll be there to offer them a shoulder to cry on!” LeFou chuckled in a way that he might've intended to be _daring_ , but it only came across as sheepish. “We just need to keep an eye out for Madame Potts. She'll _definitely_ throw us out if she recognizes us.”  
  
Gaston stopped walking and turned to face LeFou again. “Let me ask you something, LeFou. If these women are not good enough for the prince, why do you think they'd be good enough for _me_? Or for _us_?”  
  
“Ahhh...” LeFou frowned, looking as if he'd just been asked a particularly nasty trick question. “Because the prince only ever invites the most beautiful people in the land?” he guessed.  
  
“I don't want his crusty leftovers,” Gaston insisted.  
  
“Really? You always settled for just about any woman,” LeFou pointed out.  
  
Gaston sighed and shook his head. “That was during the _war_ , LeFou. When you live from day to day, of _course_ you would settle for less. Any moment could be your last. But don't you see? That time is behind us now. I don't want to settle for less, I just want to settle _down_.”  
  
“Settle _down_? _You_?” LeFou went from shock to defiance so fast, he might've sprained something. “Why? Marriage tames the wildest of men and makes them miserable. You can see it wherever you go in town. Who wants that hassle, right? You don't even need a wife to do your chores, because they're already being taken care of. It's the perfect arrangement.”  
  
“Yes, and I do so appreciate you doing my laundry, but I need a little lady to marry and grant me some strapping sons. And then those sons will give me grandsons. Besides, it's all about _image_. As the town's local hero, I deserve every bit as perfect a wife as that lazy, no-good prince does, so I will settle only for the very best. … _You_ can have whoever's second-best, I suppose.”  
  
“Gosh. Thanks,” LeFou said dryly.  
  
Gaston didn't think that attitude was warranted; there was no way LeFou could ever woo the _very_ best woman in the land, or even in their own town. That was just fact. Second-best was already better than anything LeFou had been destined to receive, but that's what he got for sticking with Gaston. A very cynical part of him even believed that this was why LeFou was so chummy with him in the first place. So long as Gaston was high up on a pedestal, his right-hand man would be only one step down and still have quite some height to him. If that was the truth, he could do nothing but applaud LeFou for his excellent survival skills.  
  
“Don't even give that ball another thought, my friend,” Gaston told him. “Let the prince wallow in his ridiculous charade. We know better than that. We _are_ better than that. Now let me hunt in peace, alright? There's a bitter storm coming tonight and I'd like to have something roasting over the fire when it hits.”  
  
\----  
  
By the time someone found him, his consciousness had already faded to the barest sliver. He only knew that out of seemingly nowhere, an actual human being was by his side and had said his name. The sound of it was familiar and a sluggish connection was made.  
  
_LeFou_.  
  
Gaston scraped together what remained of his energy, because if there were any moment to use it, it was this one. He coughed, clearing his throat of whatever was slowly clogging it. His lungs ached, or maybe it was his shattered ribcage that was struggling. His words came in a shameful, quiet _rattle_.  
  
“Did I... wi-win?” he asked. “The beast... I-Is it...?”  
  
He couldn't see LeFou's face- it was no more than a blur- and so, he had no idea just what sort of expression his friend was wearing. A bit of additional warmth told him that his hand had been taken, but he could barely feel it. LeFou's voice sounded shakier and more timid than usual.  
  
“... Yeah, Gaston. The beast is gone.”  
  
“The villagers...”  
  
“They're fine. Everyone is fine. Even Belle.”  
  
He'd done it. No matter the sacrifice, he'd _done it_. The beast who'd come to stay in their old prince's castle- likely through some kind of violent invasion- had been slayed. Now the best solace Gaston could find, no matter how twisted, was that if _he_ couldn't have Belle's heart, no one would. She would die an old spinster, mourning the death of the hero who'd sacrificed his own life to free her from the beast's hold.  
  
He wanted to laugh, but his voice gave out after only a few chuckles. He wanted to get up and savor his victory, but knew he'd lie there a useless husk for another minute or two before Death would finally come for him. LeFou was crying, he was sure. It brought him satisfaction to know that. His friend could continue to praise him, as he'd always done. Stories about his heroics would be told long after he was gone, to children and grandchildren. They would look up at the mural in the tavern with wide gazes of admiration, wishing they could have met him.  
  
All would know that it was Gaston who'd saved the people of Villeneuve.  
  
  
**The End**


End file.
